There were years when the table groaned under the weight
Of the Christmas delights I had cooked.
With a house full of teenagers, everything went
With no delicacy overlooked.
This year I was cooking for me and the dog
With a son coming round as a guest,
So I did little shopping, stayed well in control,
Thinking minimalist would be best.
I hadn’t gone mad, I had spared the excess…
Kept it more like a good Sunday dinner…
(With a good Yorkshire tea, for the end of the day)
But I’m not feeling righteously thinner.
I have eaten the last of the home-made mince pies…
It’s a hard job, but someone must do it.
The turkey, with help from the small dog, has gone
As she happily ate her way through it.
The rich Christmas Log, made of chocolate and cream
Disappeared when I brought out the custard.
The last of the ham went in nice crusty bread
Thickly slathered with butter and mustard.
The pecans were lethal, I couldn’t resist,
Kept on munching once I’d got the taste…
But what can you do, when there is only you
And you won’t let good food go to waste?
“Oooh you’ve lost some weight,” I was told Christmas day
Which was nice, ’cause I’m not on a diet.
I wasn’t too sure it was accurate though,
But I thought I’d keep that idea quiet.
I’ve still got the Christmas cake left to consume
And a trifle, some cheese and the wine…
The groaning this year may well be from the scales
And the Christmas delight was all mine.
I wonder if calories can be used up
By a writer composing a ballad?
But one thing I know, to the small dog’s disgust,
I’ll be starting the new year on salad!